Lullaby
by Pumpkingirl
Summary: "This is how it came to pass that in a bunker full of good people and a murderer Lucy ran into the embrace of the one who was both." I had to fix this guys, that ending was too vague for me. Fluffy Garcy all the way. You know you love them!


Neither of them spoke a word. Lucy needed something else and Flynn – Flynn knew he said enough for the day.

Lucy put a few steps distance between them once she entered the room, put the bottle down on the small table in the corner and looked out for Flynn's reaction. He sighed contentedly, the soft smile he welcomed her with still lingered on his face. He allowed her a moment more to think; to give herself the final green light for whatever was to come.

 **Lucy:**

When she finally crossed the room, he opened his arms for her. She was grateful for his crazy height now, as she could lay her face flat against his chest. She felt his long fingers find their way into her locks, his palm's support against the base of her skull seemed to stop the world swaying. His lips pressed against her hair and his chest moved as he inhaled.

She'd given up the fight against him long ago – she let her eyelids droop to see the way sunshine pierced Houdini's pavilion once again. He'd worn a silly bowler hat and the neatest suit she'd ever seen. That had been the first time he'd dropped the grim facade, the first occasion she had not been a little afraid of him.

She crossed her arms behind his back when he stopped supporting himself on the door to gather her up even closer to him. She felt he needed this too, he'd been going without affection for so long, the lack of it bent his soul into shapes Lucy knew all too well. She wanted to help polish the rough edges and find the man he once was beneath the debris. He deserved help.

But as his warmth slowly passed into her in comfortable waves, she reminded herself she was hugging Flynn this desperately mostly for her benefit. Rittenhouse, her mother, Wyatt… _Damn, Wyatt!_ they all made her feel wretched. They made her weak and vulnerable and – first and foremost – angry, because she couldn't allow herself to show them the frailty they cursed her with.

This is how it came to pass that in a bunker full of good people and a murderer Lucy ran into the embrace of the one who was both. She breathed evenly and kept her eyes closed as he started to hum that familiar song.

 **Flynn:**

She was petite but such a solid presence in his arms. The strength with which she held onto him suggested a tension inside her that was begging to be smoothed away. He cradled her head and when he detected a hint of strawberry scent on her hair, he tightened his hold on her. He realised she used the same shampoo as her sister to remember her. Garcia meant what he had told her in the car. He wished he could give Amy back to her.

It had started with the journal but it stopped to be about the journal ever since they'd stood in front of each other at that train station before he killed President Lincoln. He admired her fierceness, how she called him out on his actions, how she _cared_. That was the real Lucy: flesh and blood, defiant to the bone, protector of history and – these days – Garcia's own number one champion among the team.

Flynn pushed himself away from the cold metal door to support Lucy purely with his own weight. He could have easily lifted her with all her sorrows off the ground, to show her how glad he was she came to him for relief, to assure her he could hold her _and_ her burden without effort, however, he didn't want to startle her. A sudden expression of emotions wasn't what she needed now, what she required was steadiness and balance.

Flynn had longed for her closeness for so long, he was finding it hard to believe her arms were really closing behind his back. The energy that had drained from him in the previous months slowly started to seep back into him and suddenly he felt he could be awake all night if Lucy wanted to talk or drink or just keep a silent vigil for no reason whatsoever.

He looked down and saw her eyes were no longer open. He smiled into her hair and half-unconsciously started humming the song the radio had played in the car. He might have been a murderer but he hadn't yet forgotten how to sing a lullaby.

When Lucy's weight sagged against him, he put her into bed and sat down on the floor beside her.

The bottle of Vodka stood forgotten on the table in the corner.


End file.
